“You look.” The man flung the stack of cash into the drawer. “Forgetting the fact that you’re underage, I’ve got guys coming in here with families to feed. You want me to turn them down because some kid wants money to take his girlfriend to the prom?”
Hunter glared at him. “I need a job.”
“Join the club.” Then the phone beside the register rang, and the man turned away to answer it.
Hunter stood there, feeling the air bite at his cheeks. The fluorescent lights in the warehouse ceiling seemed to be buzzing more loudly than normal, but maybe it was just his shot nerves.
At this rate, he’d have to drop some of his remaining cash on a bottle of Motrin.
Then he realized that the man had left the cash drawer open, and he was now facing away, flipping through a binder full of laminated pages.
Hunter stared at the cash. He’d watched the man count it—a big stack of twenties. There had to be several hundred dollars there.
The store wasn’t even that crowded. He could grab a twenty and run.
He’d never stolen anything in his life.
The lights buzzed more loudly. Hunter wanted to rub at his head, but he was afraid if he lifted a hand, it would grab the cash almost against his will.
“Hunter?”
He turned his head, feeling like he’d lost a minute of time.
Michael Merrick stood there, two rolls of something green hooked under one arm. A red shirt with the Merrick landscaping logo stretched across his chest, already sporting a fine layer of dust, and a stain near the hem. He had a couple inches on Hunter, but that might have just been the work boots on his feet. It was the first time Hunter had ever seen Michael clean shaven.
Hunter had no idea what Michael thought of him, but considering the way his younger brothers were treating him, it probably wasn’t good.
Then again, Michael wasn’t swinging a fist or openly mocking him, so maybe this was better.
Michael said, “Why aren’t you in school?”
Hunter froze. He’d been ready for that question all day—but Michael was the first one to ask, and probably the only one who wouldn’t buy a line of bullshit.
Then Michael glanced at his watch. “Jesus, is it after three already?” He shifted the rolls under his arm and looked at Hunter a little more critically. “You all right?”
The question took him by surprise. “Yeah. Fine.”
The cash drawer slammed behind him, and Hunter jumped.
Well, there went an opportunity. Hunter scowled and wondered if he should be relieved or pissed.
The service manager cleared his throat. “I can take those for you here, if you’re ready.”
“Sure.” Michael put the stuff on the counter. Then he pulled out his wallet. Hunter could see cash trapped in the folds.
The service manager was watching him. “You need something else, kid?”
He needed to stop staring and get the hell out of here.
Before he did something he’d regret.
“No. Forget it.” Hunter unclenched his fists and turned away.
“Hey,” called Michael. “Hunter.”
Hunter whirled, ready to be hassled. “What?”
Michael was swiping a credit card through the machine. “The guys are all busy this evening, and I’m already behind. Feel like helping me build a retaining wall?”
Hunter stared at him for a second. Lack of sleep and food was making him stupid. “I don’t—what?”
Michael looked up. “It’s easy work, it just takes a long time, and I don’t want to lose the light.” He paused. “If you’ve got somewhere else to be, don’t sweat it.”
Hunter stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had to be a trick here. Had to be. “You want me to help you?”
“Sure. I mean, I’ll pay you. Fifty bucks fair?”
Hunter almost choked on air. Fifty bucks? That would probably carry him into the weekend. If Michael wanted him to cut grass by pulling up individual strands, he’d do it.
But then he remembered Casper. “My dog is in the car.”
Michael slid the credit card back into his wallet. “Bring him. As long as he doesn’t dig up the landscaping, he won’t bother me. Meet me at the truck.”
CHAPTER 8
Michael made for quiet company. Aside from giving Hunter a ball cap with their company logo on it and saying, “This way you’ll look official,” he didn’t say anything. Hunter curled the hat in his hands and wondered if this was a mistake—but they were already driving, and he’d feel like an idiot backing out now. The truck windows were down, air streaming through the cab. Casper sat in the backseat but hung his head over Hunter’s shoulder to let the air blow his ears.
Hunter’s cell phone was in his pocket. No new messages.
“I don’t have any idea how to build a retaining wall,” he finally said.
“Then you’d better get out of the truck right now.”
Hunter figured he was kidding, but Michael’s voice was so flat he wasn’t sure.
Michael glanced over. “Can you keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re an expert at building retaining walls.” Michael hit the turn signal. They were pulling into a Wendy’s parking lot. “Hungry? Tell me what you want.”
Hunter hesitated. The thought of food was almost making him dizzy—but he didn’t want to spend his last nine dollars until he was sure Michael would be good for the fifty he’d promised.
But watching someone else eat would be the worst form of torture. Hunter reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“It’s on me,” said Michael. “Since you’re doing me a favor.”
“Whatever you’re having, then.”
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when he had half a grilled chicken sandwich left in his hands, that his suspicion fully kicked in. “Why are you being nice to me?”
Michael pulled a handful of fries from the bag but didn’t glance away from the road. “Nice?”
“I thought you were all pissed at me because of what happened with Bill Chandler.”
Michael shrugged.
And then he didn’t say anything.
Hunter scowled at the windshield. Pride was pricking under his skin, trying to convince him to climb out of the car at the next stop light.
The promise of fifty bucks was keeping his ass right here in the passenger seat.
But really . . . the atmosphere in the car wasn’t tense. He had a task, something to take his mind off his mother and his grandfather and the mess of a situation he was in.
Michael hit the turn signal and eased the truck onto a gravel driveway that led back to a sprawling ranch-style house on the water. “Look,” he said. “I’m not upset about the Bill Chandler thing. I get where he was coming from, asking you to watch Gabriel.”
“I wasn’t—it just—” Hunter stopped himself and sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”
Michael stopped at a curve in the driveway and threw the truck into park. “Put the hat on and grab those rolls of landscape fabric.”
So they weren’t going to talk about it. Fine.
Hunter slid out of the cab. He pushed his hair back from his face and tucked it under the cap, breathing in the air off the water. The house sat alone on a few acres of land, and even here, in the driveway, they were a good hundred feet away from the front door. He felt better now that they were outside, with the sun on his skin. Casper bounded out of the truck to sniff at pallets set off to the side of the driveway, stacked with cut stone and sacks of soil and mulch.
Despite the breeze and the water, the whole place had a quiet stillness. It felt nice against his senses.
“Is anyone home?” said Hunter.
“Nah. They don’t need to be.” Michael pointed inside the curve of the driveway where the manicured lawn was broken by an eroded slope. “We’ll build a wall to match the curve today, then I’ll come back next week to plant stuff on top. Here. I have a sketch.” He reached inside the truck to grab a clipboard.
Hunter took a glance at the rough drawing. It was probably a good thing Michael was paid for landscaping instead of artwork. “Got it. What’s first?”
Michael was looking at him a little too closely. “Did you get in a fight at school?”
“What? No.”
“Then what’s with the bruise?”
Hunter wanted to pull the hat off and let his hair fall across his face again. He hadn’t noticed a mark this morning, but then he’d been hustling to get out of the locker room before the first bell since he wasn’t sticking around for classes. “It’s nothing.”
For a second, he thought Michael was going to push. Hunter didn’t look away, but inside his head, his brain was spinning out trying to think of some excuse to give.
But Michael just gave half a shrug and turned, gesturing to the grassy slope again.
The work was harder than Hunter expected. He kept his mouth shut and did as he was told, digging and laying stone dust and staking rebar. It felt good to work, to put his hands in the earth and let the sun draw sweat from his back. The cut stone was heavy, and he was really feeling it in his shoulders before they had a third of the wall built.
He straightened and stretched his back.
And from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement between some trees by the road.
Hunter froze. He watched for a moment.
Nothing.
Stupid. This house was way back off the main road. It could have been a deer, or a tree branch moving in the wind. All he could hear was his breathing and the water hitting rocky breakers. He dropped his guard and let the elements speak to him—but whatever it was, the elements didn’t mind its being here.
But something about it had bothered him, caught his attention and held it.
He kept thinking of Calla in his bedroom, sneaking in to hold a gun against his cheek.
He wished he had a weapon. He wished he had a weapon right now.
“What’s up?” said Michael.
“Nothing,” said Hunter. “I thought I saw something.”
He was ready for scoffing, because there was absolutely nothing around, but Michael put a hand to the ground and tilted his head. “I don’t feel anything malicious.” He paused. “But I’ll pay attention.”
Hunter kept his senses wide open now, laying stones as Michael directed, but focusing most of his attention on the road.
Michael glanced over. “Does this have something to do with the fight you didn’t have?”
Hunter didn’t look at him. “No.” He shrugged. “I’m just on edge.”
Another stone went on the wall. Michael wiped his forehead against his sleeve. “Does this have something to do with why you were ready to level the Home Depot?”
Hunter’s hands went still on the rock in front of him.
Michael didn’t say anything else, just laid another one without stopping. He flung the stones like they weighed nothing, and they slid into place perfectly. Hunter would have called him a perfectionist, but he’d bet Michael did it without thinking.
Another stone hit the wall, and Michael glanced over. “Think and work at the same time.”
Hunter grabbed a stone, letting a slow breath out. “I wasn’t going to level the Home Depot.”
“Maybe not intentionally.”
Hunter ran through the last twenty-four hours. Calla. School. Kate. His grandfather. Spending the night in his car.
Jesus, his throat felt tight again. He slammed the stone into place, feeling the impact all the way up to his shoulders.
Michael flung a stone next to his and remained silent.
And after a minute, Hunter realized he was going to stay that way. Michael wasn’t going to push. Hunter relaxed into the rhythm of the work again.